Cover your tracks (the blood that you spill will wash what you lack)
by ibuzoo
Summary: When she enters the bar Draco doesn't comment on it, reaches over the counter to push a Lime Rickey in her direction and keeps silent. She downs the drink in one go. (he puts a second glass in front of her but she watches the ice melt, wonders how long it will take until the weight of the guilt will leave her shoulders)


**Cover your tracks (the blood that you spill will wash what you lack)**

**Prompt:** Spring

**Rating:** M

**Warnings:** Modern Au / Killer AU / Slytherin is a dark bar and Draco is the bartender

**Word count: **1306

**A/N:** This AU is entirely made of alliterations, speculations, guilt and far too much alcohol on Hermione's side. Obviously she was the one to bring Tom into jail but we start this story fast forward when he's already discharged and she returns to her hometown to see him again because I planned so much more but if I'd have written down everything I planned for this AU it would have easily reached around 5k so here we go with the compact version. Also for all the nice people who apparently love autumn and who tried to cheer me up with nice words: thank you but it didn't work, the weather is still horrible, although I was able to run four hours through IKEA to find a new desk so I think that's a win?

* * *

><p><strong>o.<strong>

It starts in spring.

Winter is long gone when she returns and little pink cherry blossoms bloom on the branches of the trees, champagne and orchid pink buds which spread between chartreuse and lawn green leaves as soon as the first sun-rays grace them.

_(she can still hear snow scrunching under her soles, can still feel chapped icy lips on her own)_

It starts in spring - again.

* * *

><p><strong>i.<strong>

The Slytherin pub is still the same, green velvet cushion on dark mahogany wood, booze and high class champagne on mass and she watches the barkeeper from afar, observes the way his dark tee clings perfectly to his fine tanned abs and shoulders. She takes her steps cautious, considered and when she takes the stool in front of him she smirks, small and genuine, "Can I have a Blood Mary?"

Pervading grey eyes shoot up and for the flicker of a second there's something like confusion in them, something like hesitance before the barkeeper breaks into a laugh, shows his perfect row of teeth while he calls her name, leans over the bar to give her a kiss on both cheeks.

It's a relief to know that Draco hasn't changed.

_(but he has, she realises later and knocks back her Bloody Mary)_

* * *

><p><strong>ii.<strong>

"Have you seen him yet?", he asks out of the blue and Hermione chokes on the drink, tastes the bitterness of vodka on her tongue and Draco pities her with his eyes, sighs deep. She doesn't need to answer, doesn't want to think about it for the moment so she orders another drink and keeps silent.

* * *

><p><strong>iii.<strong>

She tries to avoid Tom at any cost but there are only a few places to hide in a small town like this one.

It is inevitable, really.

* * *

><p><strong>iv.<strong>

She spots him between two shelves of different kinds of cereals and chocolate bars, in the corner shop where she used to get free lollies as a child. He's even taller than she remembers him and has fine muscles on his nape that stand out in the fake halogen light of the shop, disappear beneath the hem of his dark grey tee. A navy plastic shopper basket dangles from his arm, in it a milk carton, some Oreo's and half a loaf of bread and she spots just the tip of black faded ink in his nape, a part of a tattoo that she almost forgot about.

Her stomach turns inside out and there's a gut-wrenching feeling in her stomach that makes her want to throw up while bile rises in her throat, floods her mouth with something particular sour and bitter. It's pathetic what kind of reaction shocks her body and she needs a moment to compose herself, breathes deep in and out - then Tom turns around and his grey eyes pierce through hers.

She trips over her feet and runs off.

* * *

><p><strong>v.<strong>

"You should have known that you could not avoid the pain forever," Draco grumbles while his long hands polish a margarita glass until it shines, appears new and he puts it behind himself on a glass counter, besides an army of other cocktail glasses.

Hermione scoffs, thinks I know, but she'd never admit that, runs her fingers along the side of her caipirinha and watches the ice melt in the lemon glass, stirs the liquid with a delicious thin sugarcane until she states, lips pressed into a thin line, jaw set, "I learned more from pain than I could've ever learned from pleasure."

"I know," he retorts and her glance shots up, waits but all he does is polish the next glass, unaffected.

She takes a deep gulp but even the lime can't cover the taste of bile in the back of her mouth.

* * *

><p><strong>vi.<strong>

She needs three more days until she looks for him.

_(she feels entirely masochistic when she does)_

* * *

><p><strong>vii.<strong>

When she enters Tom's flat everything looks like she remembers it; all the piles of books have grown indeed, but they still occupy the whole room, overlap and blanket the shelves, the desk and even the floors in stacks that reach just to her hip, sometimes higher. Papers are spread over the table and the couch, inquires about all kind of themes: maths, biology, history - she never doubted he would lose his wit in jail.

He stands beside a wall, arms crossed over his chest, his posture clearly intimidating, poised to attack and his eyes rest stoic on her frame. A deadly glimmer reflects from the spring sun in his grey orbs and Hermione clears her throat, picks at some invisible dust grain on her tangerine scarf, "So, how have you been?"

A dark chuckle leaves his lips and his voice splits between frustrated and indignant when he hisses, spits, "When exactly do you mean, sweetheart," and the nickname falls off his lips like some pestilent acidic threat, something that needs to be eliminated while he drawls further, "Before or after you turned me in?"

There's bile in her mouth again.

_(she doubts she'll ever lose the taste of it)_

* * *

><p><strong>viii.<strong>

When she enters the bar Draco doesn't comment on it, reaches over the counter to push a Lime Rickey in her direction and keeps silent.

She downs the drink in one go.

_(he puts a second glass in front of her but she watches the ice melt, wonders how long it will take until the weight of the guilt will leave her shoulders)_

* * *

><p><strong>ix.<strong>

Tom works at Borgin and Burkes since his discharge and she knows the shop and it's owners, a shady business where you can get everything you ever wanted. The place is stuffed with rare old books and antiques, victorian tea services and baroque paintings - nothing really valuable but who knows what the old Burkes is up to.

"What do you want Hermione?" Tom sneers after her third visit and she swallows, watches the underlying annoyance in his composure, the rage that tenses his shoulders up and something else, something dangerously glints in his eyes, something treacherous like understanding, like hurt.

"I want…," she whispers, stops, opens her mouth once more but not another word comes out.

* * *

><p><strong>x.<strong>

She doesn't visit the Slytherin bar the next days, nor does she call Draco but she hides her face in her cushion, breathes deep in and out while Tom's voice haunts her,

_(no one ever wanted anything more than I want you, Hermione)_

whispers memories from a life long gone,

_(no one ever wanted anything more than I want you)_

in her ears,

_(no one ever wanted anything more)_

soft,

_(than I want you)_

smoothing,

_(no one)_

until she screams.

* * *

><p><strong>xi.<strong>

Tom sits already on the porch outside her flat when she returns from shopping, both shirt-sleeves carefully rolled up to his elbows and he raises as soon as he spots her, waits, observes. The bags in her hands feel strangely heavy and her breath catches, burns in the back of her mouth.

"I forgive you," he says and his voice sounds gravelly, unrelenting and he adds while he takes the bags out of her grasps, brushes her fingers just the slightest, his words warm on her face, "I did a long time ago."

She nods and leads him into her home a second later.

_(his breath still smells like spearmint and lemon at once)_

* * *

><p><strong>xii.<strong>

"Don't leave," he says some hours later and catches her wrist in a swift motion, tugs her back so she needs to face him, observes the way the grey in his eyes changes its colours to shades of slate and glaucous, little dabs of steel and they remind her of raw spring storms and mostly the havoc they leave behind.

"I won't," she murmurs while his thumb graces her pulse, rubs over the sensitive spot on her wrist.

Outside the summer starts.


End file.
